


Imagine: Castiel taking you to the diner where you went on your first date in order to ask a very important question.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [57]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel taking you to the diner where you went on your first date in order to ask a very important question.

“Do you remember this place?” Even more the chivalrous celestial boyfriend than usual, Castiel slides the chair away from the table of the quaint diner, stepping aside so you can sit. Blues flecked with added warmth in the golden hue of the hanging lamps above, they bounce brightly, searching your features for signs, subtle or otherwise, of recognition.

“I do.” You beam; grasping for the nearest hand peeping from his trench coat sleeve, smile stretching impossibly broader until your cheeks ache with joy, you give his palm a squeeze. “How could I forget?” You swear his skin is slick with sweat, but of course that’s not possible - he doesn’t sweat under any circumstances. “We sat at this very same table. And is that-” you pause mid-sentence, tilting your head to better hear the melody radiating from the jukebox, “-that’s our song, too.”

Some of the tension afflicting the angel’s shoulders eases at the sharpness of your recollection. Not that he’s surprised you remember, it’s just that he wants tonight to be perfect and the recreation of your first official date is an integral part of his plan. Returning your affectionate grip, he goes further in fondness; lifting your knuckles to his lips, he presses them each with a soft kiss, murmuring over them, “Yes, we did. And yes, it _is_.”

The brush of his breath and the feather-lite movement of his mouth forming the words across your captive fingers ignites a tickle in your belly that swiftly glides upward as a chuckle. The blissful sound chimes the air and resounds it’s song straight to the angel’s heart.

Releasing the handhold, he pushes the chair in as you settle. Peering around the otherwise empty diner as he moves to the seat opposite - _empty_ , because he arranged ahead of time for you to have the whole place to yourselves - a twinge of anxiety tightens his throat. As he smooths the side of his coat to sit, he feels for - for the hundredth time today, in fact - the weight, physical and emotional, of the small parcel tucked in his right pocket. Finding it there, safe and sound, same squared shape as the last time he checked, he swallows down the worry.

You notice the brief flicker of panic in the crease of his brow. It’s not unusual for the angel to be troubled over something. It’s also not unusual for him not to talk about whatever is burdening him unless prompted. “You seem quiet,” you note, breadth of your smile lapsing into one of gentle concern. Slipping a hand across the table between you, you lay the palm up and flutter your fingers to implore an embrace.

Meeting your eyes, a flit of alarm delicately pops his lashes a smidgen wider. He quickly covers it with a gravelly throat-clearing cough. He takes the proffered hand, tenderly turns it over in his own and rubs a thumb soothingly over the surface. “Do I?”

“You hardly spoke on the drive over.” And it was a drive - two hours outside of Lebanon to get to this mom and pop dinner stop. As far as you know it’s not a special occasion, just a normal night out. Not that you would trade idle hours spent with the angel for anything else in the world. “Is everything okay?”

It’s just like you to be concerned for him. From anyone else, he has a hard time accepting that concern - after all, his soldierly seraphim coda tells him it’s his place to watch over _you_ , not the other way around. From you, he appreciates the care. The appreciation shows in the spring of a smile adorning his aspect. He’s supremely grateful, actually, that your concern for his well-being appears to be banishing whatever suspicions might arise regarding his motives for this trip which would spoil the surprise. 

“Cas?” you prod, watching the gears of thought turn behind his steady gaze.

In his peripheral sight, he sees the server approaching in her tidy mustard yellow dress. She carefully balances on her tray a stack of steaming hot waffles overflowing with whipped cream and fresh fruit that you ordered last time you were here. She stops halfway cross the room and fishes a lighter from her pocket to set the single sparkler jammed in the pile aglow in a white-hot cascade of glitter. 

You flinch at the sudden sputtering uproar of sparks and spin to see what the ruckus is about.

Cas steals the moment of distraction to retrieve the ring box from his pocket. He places the velveteen cased symbol of his enduring devotion, hinge yawning to reveal a solitary diamond, breathtaking not in size, but in its simplicity and seemingly pulsing supernatural inner glow, in front of you to find when you twist back. 

Focus fixed on the undulant dance of your lips in amusement over the antic display, he reassures both himself and you that, “Everything is _perfect_.”


End file.
